Monday, April 2, 2012

Desert Glory

Written Feb. 2

Lydia gasped in pain, wiping blood from
her brow. Was it hers? She didn't know. It was only a little farther
now, anyhow, and time was short. She could die, but later. Not now.
She inched forward, well-armored knees, all but useless, plowing
grooves into the sand.

Her vision wavered, black spots
pulsating, threatening to swallow everything. The blood was hers, all
right. She pushed through anyhow. Isn't this what she trained for,
after all? What she had dedicated countless years to achieve? Not to
mention the harassment of her male 'colleagues' (dead, long ago, in
other conflicts, less meaningful, but who was left to care but her?).
She had trained with the Monks since childhood, had yearned for the
Abbot's approval all her life, had sacrificed her body and forged it
to hardest steel. Had earned that approval, and finally the respect
and admiration of the others, and the right to lead them.
Had been chosen to serve her God, not just on any field of battle,
but this one.

She
closed her eyes; she could be glad she would not live to regret this
fight. Too many men, good men,
under her command, had died today. Jefferson and Kilpatrick and
Andrews. Andrews had been the last, and the bravest, and the worst –
she was already dead, it was the last enemy on the field, distracted
by beating her bloody, and he could have done it, he could have
followed orders, and done what they came to do, and let her die. He
could have won it for them. And he had decided, despite her orders to
the contrary, to save her, at the cost of his own life. She had
forgiven him, of course. How could she not? Was it not God's will?

But none of it really mattered, in the
end. Not the years, not the blood – not her blood, at least. All
that mattered was the button. One little switch. And then she could
die, but the rest would be safe. There it stood, unblemished in the
chaos, like a rose, rising absurdly from the desert. She need only
press.

There was a muffled tearing sound, and
Lydia bit back a curse. Her sword belt – really a bandolier
carrying all her various weapons – had been damaged in the
skirmish, glanced by some brigand's blade before she'd split him
throat to groin, and dragging it through the coarse sand with her
chakram and daggers hanging on it had finally finished the garment.
Too bad, she reflected, but she could make no more use of it anyway.
Perhaps whoever found her corpse would take it and repair it, and
would not use it for ill. She could hope so.

The blood, mixing with her sweat,
dripped into her eyes, blinding her, and she dug at her eyes in a
panic, getting sand and grit into them as well. It took a moment for
her to calm herself and carefully clean away the obscuring mess. Her
eyes still stung, but she could still see it. That was the important
thing.

She reached the pedestal, but try as
she might, from her prone position her fingers could not reach the
button, not even the top of the pedestal. By God, was she tired. She
could sleep for centuries, and soon she knew she would. But first she
must prop herself up, and she grimaced for what would come next.

With nothing for support presenting
itself, she gripped the pedestal itself. The smooth metal pole was
strangely cool even in the desert heat, and she nearly wept in
ecstasy in the sweet relief of it. Perhaps it was a sign – God's
final blessing, a benediction for his most devoted daughter, who had
given so much and seen so little reward (not that she would have ever
asked for a reward in this life, oh no, that could come
after). No matter. The coolness revived her, and she hauled herself
up to a sitting position.

With every pull, pain shot up and down
her body, and her vision swam. She knew her spine was broken, but it
must have been lower than she had reckoned, for she could suddenly
feel each of her ribs – most of them were broken, probably, and
without a doubt she was bleeding internally was well as externally.
God, if only the pain was a little less intense she could count them.
Not that there was time for that. No, indeed. Only time enough for
the button.

She could feel what little strength she
had left leaving her. How long did she have before it was gone?
Minutes, she thought, perhaps less. If she died now, she thought,
no-one would blame her. No-one could blame
her, because there would be nobody left, not on this piss-poor
mudball of a planet.

But she knew then
that God would judge her, for giving up, and that is what propelled
her to almost a kneeling position, panting and fighting the urge to
scream in pain. Her legs were still useless, that was true, but she
could lean against the pedestal and hold on to it, trying to maintain
a wobbly balance.

She used this new
vantage point to survey the carnage. Her soldiers, her men, fallen in
battle. The same went for every one of those who had chosen to sign
up for the others, but it hung heavy nonetheless. She hoped someone
would come to claim the bodies. Hers, too, soon enough. She wondered,
distantly, if her parents would ever find out, if they were even
alive or cared.

Lydia pushed away
from the pole and looked askance at the button. Could it really be so
simple? Just one press, to save millions, if not billions?

She saw something
written just below the button, glaring, yellow on black. She had been
told what it said in the briefing, but seeing it here, it was yet
more absurd. Comical, even. Just one word.

“RESTART”.

Without another moment's hesitation,
she struck it with the flat of her hand.